Willa Cather’s writing often felt like a mystery to me, even as I devoured her novels and short stories in college. Her style was so distinct, so precise – every word seemed weighed with significance. But the more I read, the more I realized that I couldn’t quite pinpoint what drew me to her work. …
There are demons in the old grimoires who move like shadows along the edge of a candle’s glow, and then there is Furfur — a spirit who arrives with weather. He does not slip quietly into a ritual circle. He comes in thunderclaps. In lightning. In the electric tension that prickles across the skin before …
